ver go the chairs,
down goes the table, and I suppose Shylock _does_ hit "one of them"; for
the two lords go off quite triumphantly, with the intimation that he
will be in prison in one hour from that.

Then the Jew calls for--Sarah; and this same comes in on tiptoe, for
fear of waking the baby. This Shylock _fils_ Sarah proceeds to describe
as equally beautiful with Abel and Moses, which seems to give Shylock
_pere_ great comfort,--though I am bound to admit the lowly whispered
doubt on the part of a pit-neighbor of mine as to Sarah's capability of
judging in the matter.

Shylock is preparing for prison, it seems, and one little necessity is a
prayer for said son. Sarah comes in with a response, Shylock leaves
off praying "immediate," to tell Sarah she is no vulgar servant, which
assurance is received in the tearful manner. And here it comes a
little faint whiff of the real play. In leaving home, Shylock's French
plagiarizes the Jew's speech to Jessica, even down to the doubt the Jew
has about leaving his house at all.

There has been no necessity for stating that Sara supposes herself the
widow of a libel on his sex, a man unspeakable; and the moment I hear he
is, or was, a man of crime unspeakable, I know he will turn up. Shylock
having gone away,--I do not know where,--up comes a gondola to the
front-door, and, of course, in walks Sarah's husband. "Good evening,
Ma'am," says he. "God of Israel!" says she. And then such an explanation
as this infamous husband gives! He puts in, that he is a pirate; that
his captain, whom he describes as a _Venus en corsaire_, has lost a
son, and wants another; hence speaker, name Arnheim, wants that little
Israelite who is so much like Abel and Moses at one and the same moment:
though how Arnheim should know of that little creation, or how he should
know him to be also like the lost infantile pirate as well as Abel and
Moses, does not sufficiently appear,--as, indeed, my neighbor, who is
suggestive of a Greek Chorus in a blue blouse, discovers in half a dozen
disparaging syllables.

Of course, when the supposed widow hears this, her cries ought to wake
up all hearing Venice, but not one Venetian comes to her aid; and though
she uses her two hands enough for twenty, she has not got her way when
thoroughly breathed.

"Sarah," says that energetic woman's husband, "Sarah, don't be a fool!"

Then I know the baby is coming: there never yet was a French prologue
without a baby,--it s